“But you knew he has sons? How many? What is his wife’s name?” He should have stayed so she could have asked him such questions.
“I think he has three sons. I can’t remember his wife’s name.” He started walking with her to join the crowd, Benjamin in tow.
“How can you not know their names? They are family.” She shook her head. Brothers!
“It’s not like I saw him often. We don’t chatter on like women, you know.”
Dinah darted a glance at him. His face lay in shadow, half hidden by the moon.
“Humph.” She would never understand men, not even these brothers who shared the same mother as her. Joseph would have asked.
The thought came so suddenly that she staggered, missing him all over again. Perhaps she was simply grieving Sabba so much that she missed Joseph as well.
She slipped her arm through the crook of Benjamin’s, and together with Reuben they joined the others. She wept as the other mourners did. But she wasn’t sure whom she wept for most—Sabba or Judah or Joseph or her entire fractured family.
25
EGYPT
Joseph awoke to the sound of the prison’s heavy door opening and chains dragging along the floor. He rubbed sleep from his eyes and walked to the open door of his cell. Six months had passed since Potiphar had sent him to this dismal place, but at least he was allowed the freedom of coming and going from the small room where he slept.
He moved through the hall, taking a lamp from its niche to light the way. Potiphar had put him in charge of helping Joba since his first weeks in this place, for which he should be grateful. Oh, Adonai, forgive me. I try. But he struggled with his purpose in life.
Surely God had a reason for allowing him to take this path. Surely the God he knew, the God of his fathers, would not completely abandon him.
He reached the main door to the prison, where Potiphar stood with two men dressed in fine linen, as though they had come from a wealthy home or the king’s palace. Joba emerged from his room, hurrying to Joseph’s side. Both of them bowed before Potiphar.
“Joseph,” Potiphar said, “these men are close officials to the pharaoh. This is HeQaib, his chief cupbearer, and Baufra, his chief baker, and they have greatly offended the king. I want you to be the one to attend them.” Potiphar handed their chains to Joseph along with the key, and Joseph nodded his acceptance and led the men toward an empty cell.
“Joba,” Potiphar said, “see to it that these two men are the only prisoners in Joseph’s care. Once they are released or executed, you may allow Joseph to resume his normal duties for you.”
“Yes, my lord,” Joba said. Joseph imagined his bobbing head and clasped hands, the posture he always took in Potiphar’s presence.
“Good. See that you do all that I say.” Potiphar’s footsteps receded, and Joseph glanced behind him at the man’s retreating back.
It was rare to see Potiphar since coming here, and even more infrequently did he personally deliver new prisoners to this place. His guards usually did that for him. These men must be important indeed.
Joseph opened the door with a barred window near the top, undid the men’s chains, and motioned them inside. “Tell me why you are here,” he said before turning to a servant he heard passing by. “Bring fresh food for these two men. They are the king’s officials.”
The servant bowed and hurried away while Joseph focused again on the two men.
“I am HeQaib, chief cupbearer to Pharaoh Amenemhat III,” the first man said, “and this is Baufra, Pharaoh’s chief baker. Tonight as I served the king, a commotion came from the baking and cooking rooms. Someone shouted about a plot to kill the king, and suddenly more than half of the understaff were taken to the main prison while Baufra and I were brought here.”
“Somehow the pharaoh thought the two of you were involved,” Joseph said, easily imagining how chaotic a large group could become. He’d seen problems arise even at Potiphar’s social gatherings, where the people drank too much wine and the Egyptian heat caused tempers to flare.
“Yes,” HeQaib said. “Though I have no idea why I was included. Most of those who were taken to prison were from the king’s bakeries.”
Joseph looked from one man to the other. “I am sure the king will get to the truth, and then you will both know. Meanwhile, give me a list of your needs, and I will do my best to see that they are met. Though you are prisoners, as am I, we come from high positions, so the king’s captain of the guard sees to it that we are well treated.”
The men glanced at each other, then at Joseph. By their curious looks it was obvious that they had no idea who he was or the esteem the captain once had for him.
“I will tell you my story another time,” he said to appease them. They both nodded, and Joseph retrieved a clay tablet and writing tool and wrote down what the men requested.
As he walked away sometime later, he pondered their story. Was the pharaoh often threatened? Were both men part of the plot? To be betrayed by those closest to him . . . was the pharaoh angry? No doubt, as Joseph himself had been. Angry. Hurt. Betrayed. Rejected.
He wished in that moment that he could comfort the pharaoh. But who would comfort him?
Joseph woke with a start to the sound of someone groaning. No, not groaning. An outright cry had awakened him. Was someone hurt? As he closed his eyes and listened, his body longing for a few more hours of sleep, he heard nothing more. Perhaps he’d had a dream?
He drew in a breath, listening. Nothing. At last he drifted to sleep again, but what seemed like only a moment later, dawn broke through his window. Had he slept at all?
Rubbing his hands over his eyes, he stifled a yawn and rose. He made his way to where water and a pitcher sat near the jailer’s rooms. After scrubbing his face and grabbing a few dates to stave off his hunger, he hurried to the prison cells to check on his two prisoners. Had he truly heard a cry in the night? Had it come from them? If he had not been so weary from his work the day before, he would have risen in the night to check. Perhaps it was nothing.
He looked into the cell where HeQaib and Baufra had spent the past four months and saw that they were both sitting on their mats, legs crossed, looking worried and sad.
“Why are your faces so sad today?” Joseph asked as he unlocked the door and stepped into the room.
“We both had dreams,” HeQaib said, wringing his hands, “but there is no one to interpret them.”
Joseph looked from one to the other. Baufra said nothing, but he could not hide his fear. “Do not interpretations belong to God? Tell me your dreams,” Joseph said. Though God had never explained his own dreams, he silently prayed that perhaps He would grant Joseph insight into theirs.
HeQaib stilled and looked into Joseph’s eyes. A spark of hope replaced his sorrow. “All right. In my dream I saw a vine in front of me, and on the vine were three branches. As soon as it budded, it blossomed, and its clusters ripened into grapes. Pharaoh’s cup was in my hand, and I took the grapes, squeezed them into Pharaoh’s cup, and put the cup in his hand.”
Joseph closed his eyes, praying again. Adonai, please give me Your wisdom. What does this dream mean? He waited several breaths until peace settled over him.
“This is what it means.” Joseph searched HeQaib’s face, smiling. “The three branches are three days. Within three days Pharaoh will lift up your head and restore you to your position, and you will put Pharaoh’s cup in his hand, just as you used to do when you were his cupbearer. But when all goes well with you, remember me and show me kindness. Mention me to Pharaoh and get me out of this prison. I was forcibly carried off from the land of the Hebrews, and even here I have done nothing to deserve being put in a dungeon.”